


A Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit-Down

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Cuddle Therapist, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is So Gone on Aziraphale, Crowley is a Doctor, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Human AU, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Meet-Cute, One Shot, Romantic Fluff, South Downs (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Crowley had determinedly resisted any wasting of funds on alternative nonsense in her hospice, until she was forced to accept the cuddle therapist. There's no way any woman gave hugs that could be worth fifty pounds an hour.Any woman.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 215
Collections: Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020





	A Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit-Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mehrto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehrto/gifts).



"Aziraphale. No family name. Just Aziraphale. I should've known it would be something like that, I should be thanking my lucky stars she's not called Stardust Fairyblossom or... or... Pippin Galadriel Moonchild."

Crowley's secretary glared at her. "Want to say that a bit louder, Doctor?"

"Or Anathema." Crowley sighed. "Anathema brought her on, didn't she?" Anathema was the biggest thorn in Crowley's side, and their war had been raging ever since the younger Doctor had been assigned to Patient Management. So far, Crowley had been winning. No homoeopathy in her geriatric palliative care hospice. No tarot card readings. No selling dodgy essential oils or flower remedies to her poor old dears or their families. The multi-faith chaplaincy was actually an improvement, but Anathema was not to pipe her god-awful music into it. The people at Happy Endings had enough to deal with.

The insistence on bringing in a freelance cuddle therapist had been Crowley's worst defeat. The woman charged fifty fucking pounds an hour to _hug_ the patients. It was a ridiculous budget blow-out. At least a straightforward sex worker might give them a bit of endorphins and pain relief, as well as living up to the clinic name.

"Look, you make everyone call you Crowley because you have something against your first name," said Pepper. Crowley liked her well enough; she had been the first PA she'd ever had who talked back to her. "You have no space to tell anyone they are weird. Aziraphale's _nice_ , which you stand to could learn from. She's your age, too. Middle-aged people should be friends."

"I do not like _nicccce_ people." Her lips was worse than usual in her irritation, practically a hiss. "And I'm not middle-aged."

Pepper rolled her eyes. "You're not fooling anyone with those tight jeans," she said, with the supreme confidence of someone who was both gorgeous and under twenty-five. "Look, be nice if you run into her. She's a darling. Don't make trouble."

"I never make trouble."

Pepper stuck out her tongue. She was a treasure.

"I'm not spending my precious lunch break talking about _cuddles_ ," Crowley snapped. "I'm going out to get coffee."

"Come to the caff with me? I'm due a tea break. I'll buy you one."

Crowley shook her head. The hospice cafeteria made a sludge that, even for the English countryside, should not be dignified by the name coffee. But there was a place in the next village run by a couple from New Zealand who could be depended on for a good ristretto, and besides, it was 3 pm.

 _She_ might be there.

* * *

_She_ was standing outside the cafe, looking perplexed. She was wearing cream trousers this time, with distinct ironed lines, and a soft cashmere jumper of a soft wool shade, a cream silk scarf around her neck. Crowley had never seen her in a skirt or make-up, and her curled hair was cropped short and seemed innocent of hair dye. Crowley couldn't make any assumptions based on that, though. Since moving to Hampshire from London, she had learned that the South Downs was full of women with scrubbed faces, sensible shoes and short, greying hair, who turned out on further acquaintance to have six horses, a veggie garden, a pot-throwing hobby and a husband called Nigel. Raging lesbian or old money, that was the question.

It was usually old money. Of the type Crowley despised. Unfortunately, they were also of the sort who could usually afford the hospice for their parents.

 _She_ was definitely not Crowley's type. Crowley, who was in great shape and could pull anyone she chose of any sex any time she wanted, thank you very much, she just didn't have the time lately with her career, had no excuse for repeatedly sitting in the same cafe as a plump conservative woman, trying not to look at her and fantasising about excuses for striking up a conversation.

 _She_ gave Crowley an anxious, sideways look as she came up, staring at the _Closed_ sign as if it was the sum of all her worries. She had an adorable wrinkle in her forehead.

Right. This was her chance. Casual. Be casual.

"Looks like there's no coffee to be had here today."

Another sideways glance, and the lady said politely, "I suppose not. I _was_ looking forward to a nice cup of tea and some cake." Her voice was gorgeous. Silver spoon and a plum and definitely straight. The promise of that decadently full bottom peeking out from under that jumper was not meant for Crowley.

So there was no reason to say, "Want me to take you anywhere else?" _Anywhere,_ her heart prompted, stupidly. Close up, Her eyes were round, and blue--no, grey--no green. If Crowley took her out, she could stare into them all afternoon and fuel her dreams for months.

"I'm sorry?" The stranger was definitely startled now. "Oh, you mean for tea. That's really very kind of you, but I need to get to the hospice in the next village by four, and the buses aren't very frequent."

Shit. Maybe Nigel, or whoever he was that was lucky enough to come home to those eyes and magnificent bosom, was a patient. That would be appalling. Crowley didn't have much sense of decency, she would be the first to admit, but there was tacky and then there was making a move on someone visiting her dying husband.

"I work there myself. They make tea, of a kind," Crowley said. " _Leaf_ tea, at that. The cakes are all right, local bakery makes them. Let me drive you. My treat."

There was a long moment in which Crowley began to arm herself with irritation. This woman, despite her soft look, was probably a terrible standoffish snob and had no interest in being swept off her feet by an obvious dyke in oiled black leather jeans. Especially when the pub was three minute's walk down the high street and presumably sold cups of tea. They would snap at each other, and this stupid adolescent crush would be over.

But Her face broke out into a slow, shy smile that blazed like sunshine when it came to final fruition, her eyes glancing down and then up. Practically batting her eyelashes. "Would you? That would be very kind."

"Nahhhh," Crowley managed, or at least that was what she thought she said. Her brain appeared to have shut down. She stumbled wordlessly to the local pub's car park, where she illegally left her car most days.

Her new acquaintance was very quiet on the ride. Impressed by Crowley's wonderful souped-up Bentley, she supposed. Or enjoying the beautiful countryside. Crowley was too pleased with herself for finally speaking to Her and carrying her off to care.

"Dear God," the lady said said, as they pulled in to the next village. "You _do_ know what speed limits are, don't you? They aren't completely beyond your bounds of reference?" She took a deep breath. "Sorry. I really _am_ very grateful to you. Just, a little slower next time?"

Crowley grimaced laughingly at her, and went around to open the door with a flourish. The lady carefully avoided the grass and walked all the way around to the Happy Endings cafeteria. She was adorable. Crowley swung across the grass, grinning to herself.

_Next time._

* * *

Crowley ordered tea and cake and coffee, and took the cakes back to the table. Her new companion smiled at her and, hell, it was worth drinking the coffee in this place for that.

"Thank you, my dear. They look scrumptious," She said, which was so freaking precious Crowley nearly died. She snarled instead, as her tea -- companion, not _date_ \-- delicately broke off a forkful of Battenberg.

Crowley watched carefully. She'd seen this lady eat. She would buy tickets to see this lady eat. She stayed awake at night replaying stolen glimpses of fluttered lashes, a faint blush, an expression of bliss. It made her knees turn to water. And now, she got to see it from close up.

When the lady finished her mouthful, they both sighed in repletion. And then She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and it was almost too much. Crowley was blushing, and having mad thoughts of leaning across the table and kissing her. Crowley didn't even know her name.

"Crowley."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm Crowley." Crowley gave Her her own most dazzling smile. "I work here."

"Oh, I am glad to meet you, Crowley," the lady said, leaning impulsively across the table, her face soft and sweet. "It's so nice to have a friend here. I was beginning to think I had done the wrong thing."

"I don't think you could do the wrong thing," Crowley's mouth said all on its own, as her eyes fixed on that angelic face. "What terrible crime could someone like you commit?"

"Not a crime. But it's so _different_ here to London, not a decent sushi restaurant for miles. And I heard from Pepper that the head doctor is a terrible tartar and doesn't want me here at all. And her motivational Smartboard presentations are supposed to be some kind of torment from the depths of hell. But I'd parted ways with my old employers, and, well, I decided it was time to strike out for myself and actually do some genuine good in the world." She took a brave breath. "I'm Aziraphale, by the way."

"Of course you are," Crowley said blankly. "The professional cuddler."

"Cuddle and touch therapist, dear." The eyes were definitely blue now, and sparkling. "It's quite evidence based, you know. Raises oxytocin and improves end of life. It may seem silly, but I can make people feel so much better just by holding them and touching them."

"I'm sure you can," agreed Crowley, treacherously abandoning all her objections. Fifty pounds an hour to be held in those soft, strong arms? Bargain of the year. "Oh, by the way. I'm the tartar. Terrible bitch I am, ask anyone. But I do know my way around a Smartboard pointer."

They were interrupted by whatshername behind the counter, a young woman with bouncy pink unicorn-hued pigtails and a lot of makeup, delivering their drinks.

Aziraphale lifted the teacup to her nose, inhaled the steam, and Crowley tried not to stare too obviously, or show she was on tenterhooks for the moment Aziraphale would sip. Lower those lovely golden lashes, hold the hot tea in her mouth, savour it. Would she make one of those tiny sounds of pleasure? And the inside of her mouth would be heated...

Aziraphale lowered the rim to her pink lips, and took in a sip. Crowley held her breath.

The cup clattered down on the saucer, and Aziraphale's mouth hardened into a prim line. "No. I'm afraid that won't do at all."

"It won't?"

"Certainly not." Aziraphale turned and called out to the girl behind the counter. "Come here, dear." It was said with the authority of a major-general, and the young woman reluctantly slouched across. "Did you make this tea?"

"Yeah." The girl looked warily at Aziraphale from beneath heavy fake eyelashes.

"Well, I think it's time you learned to make tea properly, so that you're not charging three pounds for an undrinkable cup of tannin in this so-called cafeteria. Did you boil the water?"

"Course I did. Well, it comes from a ready boiled tank on the wall."

Aziraphale shuddered. Actually shuddered, as if she had touched something slimy and unwholesome. Crowley was enchanted. "Well," Aziraphale said, obviously summoning great kindness and understanding, "then you need to let the water sit for at least one minute before exposing the tea leaves to it. Did you have a thermometer to measure the temperature? Meanwhile, you warm the teapot, and..."

Crowley had never seen anything so fascinating in her life. The girl was wriggling her shoulders, as if she had been pinned alive to a display board and could do nothing but squirm. The unfortunate stared at Aziraphale with deep, pained hatred, as if she was imagining the older woman chained to a wall and whipped--oh, hell, that was an unexpectedly alluring thought--but she still stayed and listened. Aziraphale was bitchy, prissy and unrelenting.

Crowley had never seen or heard anything so arousing in all her life.

When the unfortunate girl had finally escaped, Crowley said, "You know, if that girl survives the blood loss, she's going to go straight to social media and tell everyone about the terrible Karen at work today. Your name is going to be mud across TikTok."

Aziraphale formed her lips in a _moue_. "Oh dear. Well." A cherubic smile crinkled her eyes. "But at least she will know how to correctly brew a cup of oolong. Her mind and soul will be enhanced."

Crowley leaned back in her chair. "So, I know how much you charge for a cuddle session. How much do you charge for a good scolding?"

Aziraphale raised one elegant eyebrow. "My dear Doctor, you _earn_ those. Now, I must get to work. Thank you so much for the tea."

Crowley laughed into her own almost undrinkable double espresso, watching the plump form retreat. Fuck, she adored her.

Aziraphale was probably straight.

* * *

"I'm not going to _tell_ you when Aziraphale is attending patients." Pepper folded her arms.

"They're _my_ patients. I have the right to monitor the therapy they're being exposed to."

"You'll just be mean to her. You can't be mean to her or I'll break your nose. She's a literal angel."

"I can be perfectly charming when I try." Pepper glared at her. "Look, we've already met, and we got on fine. I let her ride in the Bentley."

"When did that happen?"

"Just then."

"See, I knew you'd just be mean. Now she's been exposed to your driving, she'll never work here again."

" _Pepper._ I--I order you to tell me."

"You can't give me orders!"

"I'm your _boss_."

"That's just oppression of the proletariat." They scowled at each other. "Look, promise to Satan or whoever owns what passes for your soul not to cause trouble."

Crowley didn't promise, but she got a schedule anyway. Pepper wasn't a bad secretary.

When she finally made her way to the ward, she hesitated. It was Arabella, a nasty old thing with a tongue that dripped venom.

She pushed open the door.

Azirpahle was actually lying on the patient bed, the back of it high, turned on her side. Arabella's head was on her shoulder, Aziraphale's round cheek resting gently on the sparse hair on top of her head. Aziraphale was stroking down Arabella's wasted arm, gently and rhythmically.

Crowley had never seen Arabella smile before. "Doctor?" she called out, her voice stronger than usual.

"Hullo. How are we today?"

"Better for this angel," Arabella said. "She's so kind to put up with me."

"Hush," Aziraphale said gently. "It's always my pleasure to spend time with you, you know that."

Looking at her tender expression, Crowley found herself believing it. She stumbled out of the room, and couldn't understand why there was such an ache behind her eyes.

* * *

She couldn't offer to drive Aziraphale home, her own hours were too late, but she managed to pounce on her as she was leaving. "Look, any time, you know. You need a lift or something. And I'm free." _Dinner, ask her to dinner. Ask if she's married. Ask if she's straight. Ask if she'd be your best friend if she is._ "Or lunch. We could get lunch. I'm off Sunday." There. That was done.

"I do owe you," Aziraphale said.

"Nah. You didn't even drink your tea."

Aziraphale wriggled in disgust at the idea. "I buy youyou lunch. Or, if it's not too forward..." The gaze of the lovely eyes, grey now, darted away, and she wrung her hands a little. "You might understand the value what I do better if I give you a demonstration."

"You think I need to pay someone to know what cuddling is like?" Crowley felt her cheeks flame.

"There's absolutely no need to be embarassed about it." Aziraphale's voice came more strongly. "We live in a touch-starved culture, and there's no harm in paying for things we need." Crowley must have sneered a bit, because she added sharply, "I don't mean sex work. Not to cast any shame on sex work as a profession, but cuddle therapy is strictly platonic and we are expected to neither pursue not promote sexual arousal." Oh, Crowley's cheeks were burning, now. "Besides, I wasn't suggesting you pay. Simply a thank you for your kindness." That smile flashed out again. God, it was beautiful. "And the best way to show what I do for our patients is to demonstrate. You might even enjoy it."

Yeah, that was the problem. Crowley floundered a bit. _Hey, cuddling sounds lovely, but the avoiding sexual arousal bit might be a problem if you keep smiling at me like that._

"I'll expect you at my house on Sunday afternoon. We can have dinner afterwards. Now, I have a bus to catch." Aziraphale handed Crowley a card--cream with gold edges, of course--and was gone before Crowley found her words.

* * *

She tried on four outfits on Sunday before settling on her favourite jeans. They were tight, but well-worn enough to bend. A soft shirt. Wireless bras because oh God she wasn't going to stab Aziraphale with a loose wire.

if she could get in the door without passing out or being sick.

What kind of pervert was she, anyway, to be dressing for a professional service like it was a date? Expecting, with a terrified quiver in her stomach, to take _pleasure_ from it? No. She would be calm, and pure, and _cool_ , and not jeopardise a promising friendship. Certainly not give any indication that she might have got herself off thinking about Aziraphale telling off that poor girl in the caff.

The cottage was normal. Not noticeably posh. Of course, even a small cottage in this area cost a bomb. No stables, though. Crowley was glad. She hated horses, and they hated her.

When Aziraphale opened the door, wearing soft beige cashmere trousers and a duck egg blue silk shirt, Crowley almost fainted. Especially when Aziraphale beamed at her like Crowley was the one person in all the universe she most wanted to see.

"Come in, dear. I should have asked what you want. Shall I burn oils? Put on some guided meditation or ASMR?"

The suggestions were so outrageous that Crowley found her feet a little, and sneered.

Aziraphale twinkled in response. She actually _twinkled_ , like she was bloody Dumbledore or something. It shouldn't have been so sexy. "I didn't think so. Just the basics, then." She seemed oddly pleased. "Come into my studio?"

The studio was well-lit and airy, with a wide, long tartan couch, long enough for two people to lie side by side on. And a memory foam mattress on the floor. Crowley's face felt like it was on fire.

"Do you know what you'd like to start with?" Aziraphale gave her a soft smile. "Have you thought about how you'd like me to hold you?"

Oh, gosh. "I... I dunno. The basics, like you said."

Aziraphale looked thoughtfully at her. "It can be awkward at first. It's a new idea. And of course, if you don't mind me saying so, you seem quite shy."

"I'm _not_ shy," Crowley snarled.

"Quite." Crowley felt like she was being gently mocked. She was a bit alarmed by how much she enjoyed it. "Well, even so, you might be more comfortable facing away from me. How do you feel about the toboggan position?"

"I--what?"

Aziraphale smiled at her, and then settled down on the mattress, back propped against the couch, and spread her thighs, knees bent. "Come on, don't be shy," she said brightly, and patted the mattress between... in front... Oh, Satan and all his Devils, Azirphale was inviting Crowley to sit on her lap. In front of her lap. Between her thighs. Arse to...

She turned around, and gingerly lowered herself, wishing she didn't have quite so much leg, that she was graceful, that turning tail and running didn't feel even more terrifying than staying. She kept her legs bent in front of her. "Like this?"

"That's right. If you're brave enough, lean back a little... There we go." Aziraphale hummed with approval as Crowley settled back, feeling warmth behind her, those pillowy breasts. Oh, this was awful. This was the worst thing Crowley had ever endured. Her skin was creeping with terror. She was so tense she could feel the tendons standing out on her neck.

Why did she think she could do this for an hour? She couldn't sit still for an hour. This was going to be torture.

"Just relax. Nothing to worry about here." And she was cradled in Aziraphale's warm hips, plush thighs coming up to align with hers. "Can I hold you?"

"Sssure." That lisp again.

Warm arms came around Crowley, wrapping her close. Aziraphale was so soft. Her arms were strong and secure, her breathing was slow, and...

Crowley was floating. Her head fell back on Aziraphale's shoulder. When had she last been held like this? As if she was precious? Not a quick fuck in a hotel bed or stairwell, but being _cuddled_. Close. She felt like Aziraphale's soul were wrapping her around, golden and absurdly sweet, cherishing and loving her. Of course, it was Aziraphale's job, but Aziraphale _was_ like that, she was sure. Good and sweet and loving, unless you made her tea wrong.

"There's not enough gentleness in the world," Aziraphale was saying, very quietly. "Not enough time to just touch and be with each other, in the same space. No demands..."

"Except fifty pounds an hour."

"Well, yes." Aziraphale sounded amused.

"Sushi dinners don't buy themselves."

"Quite."

Crowley wriggled, but it wasn't an uncomfortable wriggle. She was... she was _snuggling in._ She should feel mortified. But Aziraphale wouldn't judge. Not even if she reached up and held Aziraphale's arms where they supported her. Prevented her from floating away.

It was... well, nice. Really, really nice. And admittedly arousing. Those lovely thick thighs. Crowley should have worn something thinner than denim to properly enjoy their warmth... no. No, she shouldn't. That would be inappropriate. Desire was pooling in her belly already, and the temptation to imagine this was real, that she'd come home after a hard day of work and Aziraphale had been there to greet her, to cuddle...

And yesterday had been a fucking hard day. Crowley liked her job, but it was hard to get away from the fact that her patients kept dying on her. Of course, that was the point. But it was a bit depressing. No continuity in her life, no stability...

Oh, fuck, why was she crying? She never cried. It was Aziraphale, and her bizarre magic cuddles. Crowley should leave.

She rolled over and buried her face in Aziraphale's shoulder and sobbed."S-sorry."

"That's all right, dear. It can be overwhelming, can't it? All the bottled-up feelings. But I'm here. You're all right." Azirphale rubbed Crowley's back in soothing circles.

When the alarm for the hour went off, Crowley sat up and rubbed her face. "Do you take private appointments? And there's a decent Japanese restaurant in Winchester. You've no idea how quickly I can drive there."

* * *

They fell into a pattern of kinds. They had lunch and cups of tea together when they could. If their shifts matched, Crowley started picking Aziraphale up in the Bentley, and they would bicker about her driving all the way there. It felt like they had known each other for centuries?

And Sunday afternoons, Crowley would come for her appointment, spend a blissful hour snuggled in Aziraphale's arms, and then take her out to sample every restaurant in the region.

It was fine, she told herself. They were friends, and then there were the paid cuddle sessions, which were separate. Why did Crowley earn all that money if not to buy things she wanted? And if what she wanted was cuddles, that was her business. She wasn't pathetic. She was respecting Aziraphale's career. It was _business_.

The thing was, she realised sometimes, dropping Aziraphale off, that if it wasn't for the cuddle sessions, Crowley would have asked to kiss her by now. There were times Aziraphale looked at her... Well. Crowley _was_ hot, whatever Pepper said. And no entirely straight woman would look at Crowley the way Aziraphale sometimes did.

But Aziraphale was so maddening. The cuddle sessions were so intimate, but they were also paid. Her expressions were affectionate, but after all Aziraphale sold affection. And outside of the appointments, they didn't touch each other.

They talked. They talked and talked. They ate. They drank, and then Crowley would catch a cab home and collect the Bentley the next day, or crash in the spare bedroom. But they didn't touch, not even a pat on the shoulder. Except during appointments, when Crowley would lie side by side with her, soft hands in her own short hair, feeling Aziraphale's heart beat, and _wanting._

She wanted all the time. The yearning stayed with her. But how could she touch Aziraphale without being paid, when their touching was strictly business?

Aziraphale was chattering away, telling her about a documentary she had watched, something about gorillas and nests, sitting primly at her table instead of on a couch, and Crowley abruptly said, "You're so clever."

Aziraphale seemed mildly surprised. "Thank you, my dear."

"But you hug for a living."

"Well. I'm good at it. And it lets me do some good in the world."

"You are ridiculously good at it. The way you make me feel... I..." She broke off, looked away.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that." Crowley swung her attention back and oh, no. Aziraphale was picking anxiously at her own fingers. Not a good sign. "I think we need to stop our sessions. It's not appropriate, not when there are inappropriate feelings involved."

Heat flashed into Crowley's face. She had thought she had been so careful, so discreet. "Angel, I'm sorry, I..."

"It's important that the therapist doesn't feel any arousal, and..."

"Fuck," Crowley said blankly. "You're turned on when you hug me."

Aziraphale's beautiful eyes were filled with tears. "I know it's a breach of confidence, and I have no excuse. It's never happened to me before. It's just, we have become such good friends, as you're so beautiful, exquisite really, and I know someone like you would never really look at someone like me, but I used to watch you across the cafe and wish... And holding you, it's too much when I have feelings for you. Please stay my friend, I..."

"Marry me."

" _What_? Don't make fun of me." Aziraphale dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Of course she had a handkerchief. Fine linen, edged with blue. "You must be used to people falling in love with you. There's no need to be cruel about it."

"I love you. Stop being stupid, and marry me. I'm nearly fifty. One thing my job teaches me is not to mess around, you never know when time will run out. _Marry me._ "

"You love me? You want--we can't get married. Listen to yourself. We can't go that fast. We haven't even kissed."

Crowley was around the table so fast she banged her hip on the corner, but it was worth it. Aziraphale's mouth was heat and sweetness and she wasn't being paid to put her arms around Crowley's neck and draw her close, she _wanted_ to, just as she wanted to part her lips and allow Crowley's tongue inside.

Raging lesbian, then.

"Now we've kissed. Marry me."

Expressions flickered across Aziraphale's face, so quickly that that Crowley couldn't read them. "You're certain this is what you want."

"Certain. I'll never drink a substandard cup of tea again. And I will drag you back to the bedroom and make love to you and then _I_ can cuddle _you._ It's therapeutic, you know."

Aziraphale laughed. "All right. Yes."

"You absolute bloody angel," Crowley said, and then everything else was lost in kisses.


End file.
